


Fuck Not Found

by claquesous



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Genderfluid Character, Genderqueer Character, Other, Rule 63, abhorrent sexism, genderqueer!genderbent!sous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:09:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claquesous/pseuds/claquesous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Where are your tits?”</p><p>Claquesous crosses her arms over her flat chest. “You scared them off.”</p><p>Montparnasse looks like he regrets his outburst, as neither Babet nor Brujon is nearly as concerned, but he persists. “Seriously.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fuck Not Found

“Where are your tits?”

Claquesous crosses her arms over her flat chest. “You scared them off.”

Brujon chuckles softly from where he sits against the wall in the percussion room.

Montparnasse looks like he regrets his outburst, as neither Babet nor Brujon is nearly as concerned, but he persists. “Seriously.”

Claquesous shrugged. “I got a binder.”

“What, like a three-ring binder?” Bigrenaille snorted.

“Like my breasts are _bound_ , dumbass.” Contempt only now starts to bleed into her tone.

Montparnasse’s eyebrow remains judgmental. “Why?”

“Because I want to,” Claquesous answers unhelpfully.

“But—”

“In case you didn’t realize, they’re not your tits.”

“Yeah, but we like to look at them,” Bigrenaille chimes in.

Claquesous doesn’t look at him. It’s marginally more effective than telling him to go fuck himself, which he’ll do anyway, probably thinking of her or Eponine, which makes her want to projectile-vomit into his face.

Babet takes care of it anyway. “Since when are _you_ entitled to dress women expressly to furnish your depraved sexual fantasies, big shot?” he asks, with his perpetual half-condescending, laughing smile. The insincere use of his horribly punny nickname wipes Bigrenaille’s douchecanoe smile off his face, and he scowls because he doesn’t understand why he’s being mocked.

Montparnasse is torn between adding a mocking smile and being embarrassed at his own behavior. He doesn’t feel bad for being a dick, he just needs respect from the people he wants to control.

Brujon speaks up. “Should we call you a he now?” It’s almost a joke, but not quite enough of one for Babet to call him out on it, and definitely not enough for Claquesous to bother addressing it. So Babet carries on twirling his sticks with a frown and she answers honestly.

“Nah. Not yet, anyway. I don’t even know if I’ll keep doing this.” She pushes herself up onto a table and slouches against the wall, covering a lovely Sharpie rendering of a dick. “Of course, if it makes you assholes quit jerking off to me...” She glances around, curious-but-not-really as to who, in fact, does it.

Bigrenaille is still scowling, Babet winks with a smirk when her eyes settle on him, and Montparnasse looks faintly disgruntled. Brujon’s eyes are on the ceiling, unfocused, and he’s probably stoned out of his mind, but she knows he’s listening, and he understands, and he’ll remember. He always does.

“I’m gonna shake things up and show up on time to practice.” Claquesous slides off the table and puts on her snare. It’s October, and there’s no rectifying the pattern of tardiness at this point, but she needs to get out of there. Babet follows suit with his tenor drums, not-accidentally banging Bigrenaille’s hip with them.

“Not that I flatter myself to think that you trust me any more than you trust Bigrenaille,” Babet says as they head to the practice field, ( _Of course you do_ , Claquesous thinks) “but are there any _real_ reasons you just decided, ‘Fuck it, I’m going to be a dude’?”

Claquesous shoots him a glance the equivalent of an eyeroll in respect, and answers, “I said everything in there. I don’t want to be a dude, I’m just sick of giving you guys an excuse not to consider me a person. And why the hell not? It’s not like boobs are convenient.”

Babet chuckles. “I gotta say, I didn’t see it coming.”

Claquesous doesn’t answer, her silence communicating her contempt for the idea that Babet should be able to predict her every action.

“I’m guessing the whole no-tits thing doesn’t change anything on your end, but you do realize I enjoy those every once in a while,” he adds after a long moment of silent walking.

“They’re still there, _bébé_ ,” she assures him, amused. “I’m not wearing this goddamn corset during sex.”

Babet is plainly relieved. Claquesous fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“And I might get bored with this before you break up with your current amusement anyway, don’t worry about it.” Not that she doesn’t appreciate that he acts like it’s her decision whether to keep the binder on when they fuck around.

“She’s not just an amusement,” Babet protests, hurt. “I’d introduce you, but you know.”

“Don’t want me to scare her off?”

“I think she’d get on your nerves.”

“And you don’t?”

“But you like me anyway.”

Claquesous shrugs noncommittally.

“Wanna shotgun?” Babet asks, eyebrows askew.

“Nah,” Claquesous sighs. “The drum’s too much effort.”

“We’ve got fifteen minutes before we usually show up,” he points out.

Claquesous thinks twice. “I forgot I left _early_. Sure.”

They disentangle themselves from their harnesses and hide behind Babet’s car. Babet settles in Claquesous’s lap, lighting up a joint. He runs a curious hand down her chest, and decides she really does pull of androgynous quite well. Claquesous smirks faintly, as close to preening as she ever gets, curling up around Babet.

“So,” he breathes, leaning over her and cupping his hands around her mouth. He passes the smoke to her and continues. “Do you actually feel like a dude?” Claquesous breathes as deep as she can, her eyes falling shut and her arms tightening around Babet. “Because you seem right like this.”

“I am,” Claquesous replies after a moment. She plucks the joint from Babet’s fingers. “But I’m not wrong the rest of the time.” She blows a smoke ring at him and exhales the rest of it against his lips.

Babet barely tilts his head and it’s a kiss, and Claquesous feels his hands slide heavily from her shoulders to her hips. She likes the way it feels, and smiles hazily. Babet bites her lip lightly and sits back against her thighs, licking his lips. “You know, when we’re not doing this,” he smirks, “I can call you ‘him.’ For shits and giggles.” His grin broadens at the horrible phrase.

Claquesous refocuses on him and stares thoughtfully. “If you feel like it,” she shrugs. She’s still not sure which pronoun boat she wants to be on, and changing her mind is something she’d rather not do publicly. “But ask me first.”

Babet nods and reclaims his joint. He wraps his hands in Claquesous’s hair and a tendril of smoke crawls from his open mouth to her nose. It stutters as she nips at Babet’s chin, and smooths out and tapers before it’s gone altogether.

They go through the rest of the joint quickly, silently, and they’re pleasantly buzzed when they stand and stretch for practice. It’s really, between the binder and the intoxication, the worst possible state in which Claquesous could possibly turn up for practice, but she doesn’t regret either decision. Not even when she finds herself fencing with a dozen pairs of eyes demanding to know why she’s suddenly not all female.

She’s never flipped so many people off in one practice.

 


End file.
